The Iron Wolf
by Shadowblade217
Summary: Lord Tony Stark, unlike his brother Ned, has always been regarded as an irresponsible, arrogant man, not caring for those less fortunate than himself. But after a near-death experience changes his perspective on the world, Tony must become something else in order to save his family and all of Westeros: a mysterious knight, known only as the Iron Man. Book One of A Song of Marvels.
1. Prologue: The Executioner

_Disclaimer: I do not own_ _ **Game of Thrones**_ _,_ _ **The Avengers**_ _, or any of the other franchise elements contained therein._

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 _ **A Song of Marvels**_

 **Book One:** _ **The Iron Wolf**_

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 **Prologue:** _ **The Executioner**_

The forest was dark and cold and quiet. All was silent and still; the snow lay undisturbed on the ground. The only exception was in one area, where four men stood close together. They were swaddled in black cloaks, their breath rising into the air as wisps of steam.

Skurge, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, looked around, glancing up at the cloud-filled sky overhead. He sighed, adjusting the sword he carried at his belt, and rolled his eyes as he glanced at the other three Rangers, who were currently arguing over what course of action they should take next.

Skurge had joined the Night's Watch as a young man, not because he was particularly noble or selfless or honorable, but because there was nothing better for him to do with his life. He wasn't of noble birth, he didn't have any lands or titles, and his future prospects anywhere else would have been equally bleak. But the one thing he was good at was fighting, and at least at the Wall he got to do that more often than he would have elsewhere. It wasn't that he enjoyed killing, but he had no qualms about it, not letting emotion or honor get in the way of doing what needed to be done. He even served as an executioner for the Watch, when it came to dealing with any captured wildlings or the occasional deserter.

However, he was also a Ranger, participating in scouting missions north of the Wall to investigate the wildlings who dwelt there. Which was why he was now here, stranded many leagues north of anything resembling civilization, with two boys and an old man as the only friendly faces for hundreds of leagues.

Not that they were behaving in a particularly friendly manner at the moment.

"We should start back," Gared, the oldest and most experienced of the party, urged. "The wildlings are dead."

Ser Waymar Royce, the leader of their little expedition, smiled faintly in amusement. "Do the dead frighten you, Gared?" he inquired.

Gared didn't react. He was past fifty; he hadn't lived that long by letting his temper rule his head. Skurge respected him for surviving this long up here, as most people weren't so lucky. "Dead is dead," he replied flatly. "We've got no business with the dead."

Royce raised an eyebrow. "And _are_ they dead?" he asked. "What proof do we have of that?"

"Will saw them," Gared countered. "If he says they're dead, that's proof enough for me."

All eyes turned to Will, the youngest of the group. His long brown hair was tucked over his ears, helping to shield them from the biting cold. "Definitely dead," he stammered. "Cut to pieces, the lot of 'em."

"Well, what do you expect?" Royce scoffed. "They're savages. One lot steals a goat from another lot, and before you know it they're ripping each other apart."

"Not like this," Will replied, his eyes wide and fearful. "I never seen wildlings do a thing like that. I've never seen _anything_ like that, not ever."

"How close did you get?"

"Close as any man would."

"We've got a long ride back to the Wall," Gared pointed out. "Eight days, maybe nine. Not to mention night's falling." He looked up at the sky, which was slowly darkening.

Skurge felt a sense of unease as he looked around, as twilight fell over the forest. A faint, cold breeze ruffled his dark hair, and he frowned. "I'm with them," he muttered tersely. "We should head back soon; we don't want to be caught all the way out here at night, by wildlings or anything else."

Gared nodded. "Mormont said we should track the wildlings; we did that. They're dead. They won't trouble us no more. But right now there's hard riding between us and the Wall, and I don't like this weather. If it snows, it could take us a fortnight or more to get back."

Royce nodded. "All the same, even if the wildlings are dead… when we get back, don't you think they'll ask us _how_ they died?" He glanced to Skurge, then the other two in turn, getting a reluctant nod from each of them. "Right, then. Let's see if we can find out what happened to them, and then we can head back to the Wall. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Gared and Will muttered, somewhat resigned by this point.

Skurge nodded. "Agreed."

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After several minutes of riding, the four men reached the wildling camp where Will had seen the bodies. His report had been chilling: he'd told of men, women and children hacked to pieces, their bodies carefully arranged into an odd pattern in the snow; of heads stuck upright on sticks, of a little girl impaled on a tree branch that had pierced completely through her torso. The description had been so elaborate that Skurge had been convinced that, foolish though he was, the young ranger had been telling the truth.

Which was why he was even more surprised when, as they came up over a rise and peered down into the clearing where Will had reported the camp to be, there were no bodies. There were still the dying embers of a campfire, yes, but no wildlings anywhere to be seen, dead or alive.

"Your dead men seem to have moved camp," Royce remarked wryly as he strolled down into the clearing.

"They were here," Will breathed, his eyes wide. "Something's not right."

Skurge felt a chill run through his veins. Reflexively, he gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.

Gared glanced back to Will as he moved into the camp after Royce. "See where they went," he instructed, sending the boy back into the woods to check on the horses and make sure there weren't any wildlings waiting in ambush. Skurge waited among the trees by the edge of the clearing, while Royce and Gared carefully searched the clearing.

"Nothing," Gared muttered, scanning the ground, kicking up snow in case there was anything buried. "We should leave. I don't like the look of this place." Then he crouched down, looking more closely at one particular spot, and scooped away some snow, before standing with an object in his hand.

"What's that?" Skurge asked from the edge of the clearing. His voice was quiet, but the other three men could clearly hear him.

Gared didn't respond. Instead, he turned, holding up the object he'd found so that both Royce and Skurge could see it; a human hand, cleanly severed at the wrist, ghostly pale, but not rotten or decayed, as fresh as if it were still attached to its owner.

Skurge felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow. _What the hell?_ he thought, resting his hand on his sword hilt.

Royce was no longer smiling. He looked up, left, right, scanning the trees, his sword at the ready, clearly anticipating an attack.

There was the soft _crack_ , almost inaudible, of a stick snapping underfoot. All three men turned to look at the far side of the clearing, drawing their swords.

Skurge listened closely. He heard nothing out of the ordinary: only the rustle of leaves in a cold breeze, the rush of a nearby stream, and the distant, echoing _hoot_ of a snow owl. Then the breeze stopped entirely, and a deathly quiet fell upon the forest.

A shadow emerged from the trees. It was tall and gaunt, with unnaturally-pale skin; its hair was pure-white and seemed as brittle as ice. It wore dark, gleaming armor that seemed to shift and change color as it moved, from black to gray to white and back again.

Skurge heard the breath go out of Royce's lungs in a long hiss. He stepped back, readying his sword. "Come no farther!" the young lord warned. He swept back his cloak, freeing his arms, and held his sword in a two-handed grip, ready for battle.

The Other approached, slowly. Its eyes glowed a bright, unearthly blue, looking first at Royce, then at Gared, and finally back to Skurge at the treeline. It held a longsword lightly in one hand, but its blade was like nothing Skurge had ever seen. He had learned to appreciate the value of a proper sword in his life, but this was truly unique. No human metal had been used in its forging; it shone like glass in the moonlight, a gleaming, bone-white shard of crystal. There was a faint blue shimmer to the blade, playing around its edges. Somehow, Skurge knew that this sword was sharper and stronger than his own, far more so.

Oddly, for a moment, he actually wished that he could wield a sword like that.

Ser Waymar Royce mastered his fear, raising his sword and settling into a defensive stance. "Come on, then," he murmured, his face hard with defiance. "Dance with me." In that moment, he was no boy; his eyes burned with a fierce courage that defied his young age.

The Other stopped short. Its glowing blue eyes focused on the man who stood before it, upon his sword. And then it continued its slow, implacable advance.

As soon as it got within range, it struck, with an almost dreamlike slowness. The crystalline blade swept through the air, and Ser Waymar ducked to one side, barely avoiding the strike. He swung a retaliatory blow; his foe swayed casually out of its path, seeming to exert no real effort.

Its return strike came fast – too fast. Royce's parry was an instant too late, and the pale sword sliced through the mail beneath his arm and bit into flesh. He cried out in pain, blood leaking from the wound, and staggered away from his attacker. Gared started forward to try and help; Skurge wanted to do the same, but his legs wouldn't move.

The Other said something in a language that Skurge could not recognize. Its words were like the crackling of ice on a winter lake, not like any form of human speech, but the tone spoke volumes.

It was _mocking_ them.

Ser Waymar Royce found his strength again, and fury flashed in his eyes. "For Robert!" he yelled, the sound echoing in the silent forest, and he leapt at his foe, his sword whirling towards its neck in a flat slash with all his weight behind it. The Other's crystalline blade flicked up to block, the motion almost casual.

When the blades met, the steel shattered. The metal froze solid, then shattered into a hundred fragments, raining to the forest floor like a shower of needles. Royce staggered, his eyes wide in shock, staring down at the hilt and shattered blade that were still in his hand.

He hesitated an instant too long. The crystalline blade rose and fell once more, in a single brutal arc that carved through air, armor, flesh and bone. Ser Waymar Royce collapsed in the snow like a puppet with its strings cut, red spraying from the fatal gash across his torso.

In the same instant, Skurge turned and ran. He could hear Gared running behind him, the two of them fleeing madly away from that clearing, away from the monster that had just cut down their commander.

He burst back over the rise, hearing the horses neighing and the sounds of their pounding hooves as they too fled. Will was still standing there; he slammed into him, grabbing the younger man by the arm. "Come on!" he shouted. "Move!"

But Will didn't move; he was staring fixedly at something among the trees, a few yards away. Skurge turned, following his gaze.

Standing motionless, in a gap between two trees, was a young girl in dark clothing. She was definitely a wildling; no one else was out here. But that wasn't the problem.

The problem was that she was dead. Absolutely, unmistakably dead. Her skin was as pale as milk, a dark stain had spread across the front of her simple clothing around a hole in the center of her stomach, and dried blood had trickled from both corners of her mouth like dark tear-tracks. Her eyes were glowing a bright, inhuman blue, the same color as the Other's. Her head tilted slightly, and she took a slow, deliberate step towards them. Then another.

A fear like nothing Skurge had ever known, a creeping, primal horror, overwhelmed him. He dropped Will's arm, turned, and bolted.

The snow crunched under his boots; his heart was pounding, his air coming in ragged breaths. He'd lost track of Will, of Gared, of everything except his own overwhelming desire to escape. The trees rustled overhead, a cold breeze echoing around him. He could see occasional flashes of movement in the shadows; a chorus of chattering screeches rose up all around him, but that only added speed to his flight.

He burst through a line of trees, into another open clearing… and skidded to a halt with a sharp gasp.

Gared lay motionless before him, the snow around his body stained red. His severed head lay several yards away. There was an expression of mingled terror and pain on the dead man's face.

That was when he heard the sound of a soft footstep, coming from directly behind him.

Hands trembling, Skurge turned slowly.

What he saw wasn't what he had been expecting. It wasn't the gaunt, pale form of the Other, or the dead, blue-eyed girl. Instead, it was a tall figure wearing a long cloak, black lined with what looked like emerald-green velvet. There were no glowing blue eyes within the shadow of the hood, and the figure didn't appear to be carrying a sword.

Skurge stared, nonplussed, at this new interloper for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. He drew his sword again, leveling it at the figure's chest. "Don't come any closer!" he snapped, trying to conceal the terror in his voice. He tightened his grip on the hilt, keeping the sword level.

Unperturbed, the figure straightened up with a calm, fluid grace. A lithe hand reached out from the sleeve, pulling back the hood to reveal the face of a strikingly beautiful woman. Her skin was pale, her long black hair cascaded down past her shoulders, and her eyes were piercing blue-green, but without the eerie glow of the Other's eyes. She murmured something under her breath, in a language he didn't recognize, and a shock ran through his body.

Skurge swayed unsteadily, feeling a strange numbness creeping through his muscles. His sword suddenly seemed to weigh as much as a boulder; his arm sagged, and the blade dropped to his side.

The woman drifted closer to him with an almost-liquid grace. She didn't even disturb the fresh snow with her soft tread. Stopping within arm's reach of him, she gazed intently into his eyes, and her own eyes ignited with a soft emerald glow. Suddenly, she was all he could see, filling his vision; she seemed somehow overwhelming, all-encompassing, in a way that he could not comprehend. His arms went limp, and the sword slipped from his nerveless fingers.

And when she spoke again, he heard nothing else.

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 _ **A/N:**_ _Hello, everyone! So, I hadn't been planning on writing this story, but I got bitten by the inspiration bug a few days ago and I ended up planning out the whole story arc, so I figured why not give it a go? I was partially inspired by the excellent story "_ _ **A Man of Iron**_ _", by Mr. Chaos; that story is based on a similar premise to this one, although this story is going to develop quite differently as it goes on._

 _First off, I'd like to answer a few general, fairly important questions that people may have, namely:_

– _**What's the setting?**_ _This story will be set entirely in the_ _ **Game of Thrones/ASOIAF**_ _universe, but it will include many different characters from the Marvel universe (although they will, obviously, be heavily adapted to fit in this universe). This story,_ _ **The Iron Wolf**_ _, is the first "book" in a planned series, titled_ _ **A Song of Marvels**_ _. The basic structure for the overall saga will be based on the TV series, with one "book" per season (so yes, there should be eight "books" by the time I'm done)._

– _Regarding Game of Thrones:_ _ **Book or show canon?**_ _This story will be mainly based on the TV series canon, but I will be including various elements from the books to improve the narrative in whatever way I can, to make it more entertaining for the readers._

– _Regarding the various Marvel elements in this story:_ _ **What canon/source material are they from?**_ _The vast majority of the Marvel characters that will be featured in this story are being adapted from the various recent Marvel live-action movies and TV shows, although their characterization will, of course, be adapted to fit into this universe. Some Marvel characters will definitely be in it, while some I'm not sure about yet. A few will almost certainly not be appearing at all, such as Ant-Man and the Guardians of the Galaxy, simply because those characters really don't work in the context of this story, but whatever characters I can work into this universe will likely make an appearance, with varying levels of importance for the overall plot._

– _**How are you planning to narrate this story?**_ _I'm planning to do it in the same style as the_ _ **ASOIAF**_ _novels, with numerous POV characters; all of their individual story arcs will combine to give a complete picture of the story. Like in the books, I'm also planning to have a Prologue and an Epilogue chapter for each story, from a one-off POV character's perspective, that will either provide foreshadowing or set up future plotlines. So, if anybody's slightly confused by the contents of this chapter, that's what it is. Speaking of which, actually, if anybody can figure out who my narrator for this chapter is supposed to be, and what that means for the overall story, feel free to guess! (Hint: he's a Marvel character from an upcoming movie)._

 _I really appreciate feedback on my writing, so if anybody has any questions or comments regarding this chapter or the story as a whole, please review and let me know what you think! (No hate, though, please; that's no fun for me or anybody else)._

 _Next chapter, we get into the story proper, as we meet the Starks and get our first real introduction to this story's universe… stay tuned!_

 _See you next time!_


	2. Ned I, Arya I

_Disclaimer: I do not own_ _ **Game of Thrones**_ _,_ _ **The Avengers**_ _, or any of the other franchise elements contained therein._

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 _ **Ned**_

At times, Lord Eddard Stark was convinced that the gods had a vendetta against him. That was, in his mind, the best explanation for why, sometimes, a situation just seemed to keep getting worse. No matter how much he had to deal with, it seemed like there was always something else to add to the burden.

This was one of those times. The last weeks had been one blow after another, as several letters had arrived in quick succession, each with its own important news to deliver.

First, they had received a letter from the capital, saying that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, was dead, struck down by an illness that had stripped him of his strength and slowly drained away his life. Ned had mourned when he'd heard this news, as the older man had been like a second father to him during his time in the Vale. More than that, he had made everything that had happened since possible. If Lord Arryn had simply given in to the orders of the Mad King and shipped Ned and Robert to King's Landing in chains, House Stark would be extinct, the Targaryens would still rule Westeros, and the Vale itself would have been greatly rewarded. But Jon Arryn had refused; he'd protected his two charges, defying the mad tyrant's orders, and he'd helped to organize the rebellion that had seen the downfall of the Mad King and the beginning of a new age. Ned owed his life to the man, a debt that he had never been able to repay, and now one that he never could.

The second letter, arriving shortly after the first, was, perhaps, even more troubling. Apparently, King Robert had decided to pay Ned a visit, ostensibly to pay honor to Jon Arryn and spend time with his oldest friend. But Ned knew the real reason, of course. How could he not? Jon Arryn had been the Hand of the King, Robert's closest advisor and counselor. With his death, the position of Hand was now vacant, and Robert had pointedly not appointed a new one before announcing the news of his visit to Winterfell.

Which meant, Ned had deduced immediately upon his receipt of the message, that Robert meant to ask Ned himself to take over the position. It made perfect sense; the two men had been inseparable as youths, they had fought side-by-side during the rebellion and won the war together, and Ned was one of the few people who Robert had always been able to trust completely.

The problem was that, if – no, _when_ – Robert asked him to become the new Hand, Ned's honor would demand that he accept. And that would mean leaving his home, leaving Winterfell, and returning to the capital with Robert for gods knew how long. That had added fear to the grief that had already filled him, primarily because he could not say no. If it was anyone else asking, Ned knew he would be able to refuse, to find some excuse or argument to get out of it, but not Robert. Robert was his friend, the man who had been his brother in all but blood, and that meant that Ned could not turn him away.

In any case, Robert was coming, as his letter had declared. And for good measure, he was bringing the entire royal family along with him: his queen, their three children, and a whole host of courtiers, guards, and other aides to the crown.

Ever since then, Winterfell had been consumed in a storm of frenzied activity, everyone rushing madly about to ensure that everything was prepared for when the King arrived. Every living soul in the castle, from the youngest stableboy to the oldest nursemaid, had put aside everything else and concentrated all their efforts on the preparations. Everything had to be done perfectly: enough food for the celebratory feast had to be gathered, guest chambers prepared for the royal family and their retainers, and enough candles sought out to light up the whole castle if necessary. Finally, after weeks of preparation, everything was ready.

And then, just a few days before the royal family was set to arrive, a third and final letter had arrived, winging its way north to Ned's hands. And this one, unlike the others, did not provoke sorrow or worry, but what could best be described as exasperation.

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Ned held the scroll in one hand as he stalked through the corridors of the castle, a deep-set frown upon his handsome features. He found his wife, Catelyn, just as she was finalizing preparations for the royal children's chambers. She turned, smiling at first when she saw him, but frowned when she saw the look on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked, stepping forward to greet him. "Is it the King? Has something delayed them?"

Ned sighed and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he held up the scroll. Its broken seal was in red wax, and bore a recognizable symbol: a direwolf, the same as his own. "No," he answered, scowling. "It's from Antony. He's coming to Winterfell. And, apparently, he's decided to bring his whole household along with him."

Catelyn's eyes widened. "Antony? _Now?_ " She stared at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "But he can't, not with the king here! We won't have room for his household on top of everything else!"

"Of course not," Ned scowled. "But his letter says that he knows the king is coming, and he wishes to speak with him. That is part of his reason for coming, apart from simply wanting to visit his family." _Never mind that, as usual, he has chosen the absolute_ worst _time to do so_ , he thought angrily. "He also states that he has sent another letter to Robert, informing him that he will be joining us for the celebration."

"Which means, knowing Antony, he has probably written it in such a way that the King believes it was _our_ idea for him to be here," Catelyn finished. She looked over the scroll as Ned handed it to her, shaking her head. "Does that man ever think of anyone other than himself?"

Ned groaned, his shoulders slumping. "I could send him a raven and tell him that it would not be possible, say that we could not house him here until after the royal family leaves," he offered, with some reluctance.

Catelyn shook her head, a faint smile flickering on her lips as she looked fondly at her husband. "No, you know we cannot do that. It will be difficult, yes, but we can make it work. Besides, the chances are that he is already on his way, so a raven would not reach him in time."

Ned nodded, sighing in exasperation. He had good reason: Antony Stark, known to his friends as Tony, might be Ned's brother, younger than him by three years, but in terms of temperament he might as well be from a different family entirely. He had been too young to fight in Robert's Rebellion, remaining in the North as acting Lord of Winterfell while Ned went off to war, but after the realm had settled into peace, he had decided that a quiet life was not for him, and had gone off to travel the world and make something of himself. To be fair, he had succeeded in that regard; by the time he returned to Westeros, he had learned the secrets of blacksmithing, establishing himself as a master of the craft. It was commonly said that he was the greatest weaponsmaker of his generation, if not of all time, and Tony did nothing on his part to dismiss the rumors; in fact, he encouraged them. Ned did not even know all he had gotten up to on his voyages, but he knew that his brother had explored everywhere from Dorne to Braavos, and had even sailed all the way to Volantis. He had made strange new friends, several of whom had joined him when he'd returned to Westeros after his adventuring.

After returning from Essos, Tony had set about finding a place to settle down with his new household and start practicing his newly mastered craft. He had, in short order, discovered the perfect place: an old castle in the Westerlands, some distance north of Casterly Rock, on the sheltered coast across from the Fair Isle. After gaining permission from the Lannisters to take over the abandoned keep and renaming it Castle Ironheart, Tony had settled in and begun to expand his riches. He'd had luck in that regard, as his new home was built over a great underground deposit of iron and other metals. Just as the Lannisters had built their fortune from the vast reserves of gold that ran deep beneath Casterly Rock and Lannisport, Tony had found a mine that was perfectly suited to his needs. He had promptly begun mining it, and had only then discovered just how extensive his new gains were. The iron mines had rapidly grown, swelling Tony's vaults with gold and allowing him to make a significant name for himself among the southern lords of Westeros. Blacksmiths from far and wide were encouraged to come to Castle Ironheart and ply their trade under Tony's supervision, and his reputation only grew. With their support, he turned his focus to where his talent truly lay: making weapons for anyone who could afford them.

Ned had to admit that, where other blacksmiths were satisfactory in their accomplishments, his younger brother was truly an artist. He lived and breathed his work, and he poured all his effort into each creation. To make things even better, the iron ore in the rocks beneath Castle Ironheart came in a huge variety of colors and consistencies. No one had been able to explain how it was possible, but the metal in Tony's mines could be found in many different colors, from the typical silver of ordinary steel, to a blue as bright as the sky or as dark as the sea, to the green of emeralds, to a red the color of flames. This discovery had further expanded Tony's creativity, as it meant that there was virtually no limit to what he could craft. His talent, and the wealth of materials available at Ironheart, had drawn great wealth and notoriety to his name. Once his wealth had expanded sufficiently, he had become more selective with his customers, often refusing offers from many great lords and houses simply because whatever project they had sought to hire him for did not interest him or provide a satisfactory challenge for his razor-sharp mind.

If that had been the extent of his theatrics, then Ned would have happily tolerated his little brother's eccentricities. But Tony's ego did not end there, not even close. His creative brilliance was matched only by his narcissism; he always saw himself as the greatest man in the room, and he never let anyone forget it. He was highly intelligent, but he combined that skill with a vanity and arrogance that would better suit Jaime Lannister, and the wit and vices of Tyrion the Imp. He clearly had no regard for his family's legacy or honor, as he'd turned his back on the North without a second thought. If he held any religious belief to heart, it was not one he'd disclosed to Ned. As far as he knew, Tony had no beliefs, in the old gods or the new, and made no effort to hide that fact.

Considering all of that, it was fairly obvious why the prospect of an unplanned visit from his brother – at the same time as the royal family, no less – was less than inviting.

"Well," Ned muttered, "gods be good, he won't be here long. Maybe he just wants to see the King, and he'll leave when they do."

Catelyn smiled. "Either way, we'll make do." She kissed him softly on the cheek, then chuckled. "Well, who knows? Perhaps he and the Lannisters will simply be at each other's throats the whole time and pay no mind to us."

Ned cracked a grin at his wife's jest. "I'll pray for that."

.

 _ **Arya**_

"Why do we have to do this whole thing _again?_ " Arya Stark complained, shifting from foot to foot and folding her arms over her chest in annoyance. "The king and queen just got here yesterday; do we _really_ have to stand out here all day again?"

"Yes!" her older sister Sansa hissed quietly to her, keeping her voice down so as not to disturb their parents. "Uncle Antony is a Lord, and he is Father's brother; it would be rude not to welcome him personally and pay our respects."

Arya sighed. "But nobody else is out here. Why are we the only ones who had to do this? Everyone else is nice and warm inside the castle."

"That's because they're the royal family," Arya's younger brother Bran spoke up from her other side. "Uncle Antony is just a lord, not a king, so not everyone has to welcome him. But we're his family, so we do need to be here."

Arya rolled her eyes, still shuffling her feet on the hard-packed mud; she might have to be here, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Although, to be honest, she was looking forward to meeting her uncle, after all the stories she had heard about him. Some of them must have been exaggerated, she was sure, but she wanted to find out what he was like for herself. He had visited once before during her lifetime, but that had been more than five years ago, so she couldn't really remember it.

Finally, a horn blared, echoing sharply through the cold, crisp air, and the newest visitors to Winterfell rode into the main courtyard where the Starks stood waiting.

The first to enter was Lord Antony's personal bodyguard, Hogan, a heavyset man with short dark hair. He was dressed simply, in gray armor and a dark cloak, and he wore a sheathed longsword strapped across his back. His expression was dour and serious as he scanned the courtyard, as if he was looking for any possible threat.

"Why do they call him Happy?" Bran wondered, keeping his voice quiet to avoid their mother's disapproval. "Maester Luwin was telling me about Uncle Antony's household, and he mentioned that most people call him that, but he doesn't seem happy."

"I think it's a joke," Arya murmured back. "Like how Old Nan sometimes calls Hodor a "little boy", even though he's so tall."

Hogan looked around the courtyard for a moment longer, before he nodded in satisfaction and waved the banner he carried overhead, beckoning the rest of the company to enter the courtyard. The banner bore Lord Antony's personal sigil: it was the same image of a snarling direwolf as the Starks of Winterfell, but the color was different, a red wolf on a golden field, instead of the simple gray and white of the northern Starks. She'd heard that some people were angered by the design choice, as many people saw Antony's using the colors of the Lannisters in his sigil as a slap in the face to his family.

The next to enter was the captain of Tony's soldiers, Ser Jaime Rhodes. He was a tall, lean man with dark skin, a shaved head, and a wiry build. Unlike Hogan, he had a friendly smile on his face as he regarded the group waiting for them. He was considerably more heavily-armed than Hogan, as he carried a broadsword slung over his back, plus a pair of short swords sheathed on each hip. He was clad in a deep blue vest and pants, with a white shirt and cloak.

Ser Rhodes was followed, a few moments later, by another man, this one younger than the swordsman and dressed in a light purple cloak over simple brown-and-white garb. He had tanned skin, tousled dark hair, and a look of boyish wonder on his face as he gazed wide-eyed around at Winterfell. Arya had no idea who he was, but she did notice that he was wearing a maester's chain. She'd heard that the maester of Castle Ironheart, a man named Jarvis, was a thin, rather elderly man, and that he was a bookish type who rarely left the castle, preferring peace and quiet over long journeys. The physical description did not match with this young man at all, so she was left confused as to his identity. Perhaps Lord Antony had gotten a new maester since they'd last heard from him?

After these three, a covered wagon rolled into the courtyard and came gently to a halt before the family. From it emerged a striking woman, dressed in white with a fur-lined cloak: Lord Antony's wife, Lady Vyrgina Stark. She remarkably resembled an older version of Sansa, with long, flame-red hair and bright blue eyes. It was said that she had been born in Essos; while she was not of a great Westerosi house, she looked exactly as a Stark lady should, which clearly met with approval from the onlookers.

Finally, several dozen men from the Ironheart garrison filed in, led by two other men on horseback. One was young, most likely around the same age as Robb and Jon, or perhaps a little younger. He was of average height, with brown hair, a youthful, handsome face, and a friendly expression. Arya had never seen him before, but she knew immediately that this must be her cousin, Petyr Stark, Lord Antony's son and heir. He was Antony's only child, but it was clear that he'd inherited his family's dignity, as he hopped down from his horse and carefully helped his mother down from the wagon.

Last to arrive, of course, was Lord Antony Stark himself, riding in on his stallion with a touch of dramatic flair. He wore traditional northern attire, dressed in shades of brown with the exception of a deep red belt, and a dark fur cloak in the typical Stark fashion. While he did not resemble her father too closely – he was shorter than Ned, with short dark hair and a lean frame – he was unmistakably a Stark. In fact, he bore a fairly strong resemblance to both Jon and Robb, although his hair was not curly like theirs. He had a short, neatly trimmed beard, which did nothing to conceal the irrepressible grin on his face, as though he found everything and everyone around him to be terribly amusing. He wore a sword at his hip, but he did not give any impression of being dangerous.

"Ned!" Antony called out in delight as he swung down from the back of his horse in a single fluid moment, striding forward and adjusting his cloak, before hugging his brother and clapping him on the back. "Good to see you, big brother!" he said with a laugh, smiling at Ned, who himself cracked a smile at his brother's pleasant attitude. If there was one good thing that could be said for Antony, it was that he truly did care for his family, just as all Starks did. "How's the old place been treating you? Frost gotten into your bones yet?" He chuckled at the expression on his brother's face. "You know, you should really smile more, Ned. It'll make you feel better."

Ned chuckled, almost reluctantly. "It's good to see you, brother."

"There we go!" Antony replied with a satisfied grin. Giving Ned another pat on the shoulder, he stepped over to where Catelyn was regarding him with a cool expression. "Cat, so good to see you," he said with a smile, taking her hand and bending to kiss it in a courtly manner. "Sorry about coming up here at the last minute, but I really wanted to see all of you again."

Catelyn nodded. "Antony," she greeted him. Her attitude was polite, but there was a faint edge to her voice; she clearly hadn't forgotten how much of an inconvenience his unexpected visit had been.

Antony raised an eyebrow, but seemed to shrug it off, before moving on to Robb. "Well, now, look at you!" he said with a delighted grin. "Last time I saw you, I could pick you up and carry you around on my shoulders." He grinned, hugging Robb and clapping him on the shoulder. "How are you? Learning how to be a Lord and become all grumpy and boring like your father?"

Robb didn't seem to know whether he should be amused or angry, but Arya found herself having to resist the urge to giggle at her uncle's antics. Antony was definitely a Stark in looks, but his attitude was completely different than that of her own father. While Father was solemn and deliberate, as though he weighed the importance of each word before speaking, Antony was quick-witted and fast-talking, flitting from one topic of conversation to another like a bird, words spilling from his lips in a rush that would have been very confusing if the person he was addressing had not been paying attention.

Antony stepped over to Sansa, the next in line, but frowned, looking from her to Robb and back again. "Hang on… isn't there supposed to be somebody else here?" He indicated the space between Robb and Sansa. "Where's Jon?"

Catelyn inhaled sharply, her lips compressing into a thin line in anger or annoyance, and Arya winced in sympathy for her brother. She knew that her mother disliked Jon, but that didn't make it any nicer to see it.

Antony glanced over to Catelyn, noting her reaction, and sighed, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake, this again? Look, I know you don't like the kid on principle, and that's your business, but he's still my nephew, and I still want to see him just as much as I do any of the others. No offense intended to you, Cat." He inhaled deeply, trying to relax. "Now, where is Jon?"

"I am here, Lord Stark," Jon spoke up, stepping forward from where he stood in the row behind Robb.

"Oh, for – you too?" Antony groaned. "Why is it that all you northern Starks have to be so damn _formal_ all the time? I know it's necessary sometimes, but come on, I'm your uncle, not the king." He grinned, focusing on Jon again and gripping his shoulders with an approving nod. "You look well, Jon. It's good to see you." He leaned in closer, hugging Jon as he had Ned, and spoke quietly into his ear; Arya strained to overhear his softly spoken words. "The next time I come here, tell them that I want you standing right up here with your brothers and sisters. The world may try to tell you that you're not as good as them, but you don't have to listen. You're just as much Ned's son as Robb is, so remember that whenever someone tries to put you down for what you are." He pulled back, looking intently into Jon's eyes. "Promise me that." Hesitantly, Jon nodded, and Antony grinned. "Good man."

With that, he was off again, turning to Sansa. "Well, now, this is a pleasant surprise!" he said with a smile. "A pleasure, my lady. You and Pepper should spend some time together now that we're here; you'll get along fabulously, I'm sure. Based on looks, I'd swear you were her daughter if I didn't know otherwise." He laughed, patting her on the shoulder and drawing a pleased smile from Sansa. Arya groaned inwardly, tuning out the rest of the conversation. Her uncle was not what she'd expected; he was definitely not like her father, Robb or Jon. But she had no problem with that, because she wasn't like the rest of her family any more than he was.

"And what do we have here?" Speaking of Antony, she hadn't noticed that he had finished his conversation with Sansa and stepped over to her. She blinked, looking up and seeing him smiling down at her with an amused grin on his face. "You were quite a bit smaller the last time I saw you, but already running around having adventures. Been keeping up with that, I hope?"

Arya allowed herself a small smile. "Whenever I can," she replied.

"Good, good!" Antony grinned. "So, am I all you'd been told from those dreadful rumors you've no doubt heard about me? Most of them are true, I'm afraid."

"Even the one about you daring the Imp to dive into the cake naked at your wedding feast?" Arya spoke up with an amused smirk.

"Arya!" Catelyn snapped, aghast.

"Oh, fantastic!" Antony laughed, clapping his hands together. "Finally, another Stark with a sense of humor!" He glanced over to Ned, who was greeting his wife. "Ned, you don't mind if this one sits with Pepper and I for the feast tonight, do you? Royal dinners can get dreadfully dull without someone there who can liven things up with a bit of wit."

Arya's lips curled in a wide, excited smile, particularly when she heard Sansa gasp in shock. Ned's eyes widened, but before he could say anything, Antony cut him off with "Ah, good, it's settled, then." He flashed another grin down at Arya. "As a matter of fact, you know what? Jon can come too. The four of us can eat dinner with the King. That should make for some excellent stories."

Arya laughed, unable to help herself, and looked over to the others. Lady Vyrgina and Petyr were both looking on with amused smiles, but her own family's reactions were far more entertaining. Sansa's eyes had widened to the point where Arya thought they might pop out of her skull, Robb and Jon were both having to hold back outbursts of laughter, and Ned was having to hold Catelyn still, as if she was about to hurl herself at Antony and personally throw him out of Winterfell's gates.

Arya, for her part, had already decided that Lord Antony was _exactly_ the sort of uncle she'd been hoping for.

.

 _ **A/N:**_ _And we're back! Hopefully you enjoyed the introduction of Tony and his family to the world of Westeros; if you have any questions, please feel free to ask!_

 _One kinda-important thing that I figure I should clear up right now, as it might confuse some people, is the way I'm writing the characters' names. Taking a cue from several other_ _ **Game of Thrones**_ _fanfic writers I've seen who did this, I decided to change the names of the Marvel characters I'm adapting to better fit them into the naming structure of GOT characters (hence Antony instead of Anthony, Vyrgina instead of Virginia, Jaime instead of James, etc.) I'll be doing this for pretty much all the Marvel characters I introduce, except in any cases where their canon names work in this world. One example of this would be Skurge, the POV character from last chapter; his canon Marvel name works perfectly in this world, so I kept it the same. For the most part, though, I'll be editing people's names slightly so that they fit with the GOT naming scheme. Fortunately, most of the main characters' nicknames (Tony, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy, etc.) still work here._

 _Now, the characterization of Tony and his household. One of the biggest alterations from Marvel canon here is my decision of having Pepper be married to Tony in this story. It makes sense, though, in my opinion, as there was really no other way I could put her in here while also making her true to character. The only other options for her as part of his household would be to make her a female servant of some kind (which wouldn't work with the back-and-forth that she and Tony have, as in this world a female servant wouldn't do that), or a whore (which definitely doesn't work). But, especially since they're apparently getting married in the mainstream MCU, I figured it would make sense to do that here, as it makes for a more interesting dynamic between them._

 _That also brings me to the other big deviation from Marvel canon, regarding the character of Petyr Stark, Tony and Pepper's son. If you've been watching the recent MCU movies, you can probably figure out who he's based on pretty easily. If you're annoyed that I changed his origins here, I can understand that, but this was the only way I could have him involved with the main plotline, as making him a peasant boy or something wouldn't make sense in this universe. Plus, this way the Stark children have another family member who's in their age range, which should make for some interesting interactions. If you're wondering about ages for the kids, actually, I'm going with the show version, in which Robb and Jon are 17, Sansa's 13, Arya's 11, Bran's 10, and Rickon's 6. I'd say Petyr's about 15-16 at the start of the show, so a bit younger than Robb and Jon, but older than the other Stark kids. We'll see more of him next chapter, actually._

 _Oh, and if you're wondering who Tony's maester is in this chapter, don't worry, I'll explain who he is soon; it's probably not hard to figure out, though._

 _Shoutouts to chase manaena, birdy, Zim'sMostLoyalServant, OmniPlanckInstant, Hercules8, and BrutusPrimus for reviewing! You guys are awesome!_

 _As always, I love getting feedback on my work, so if anybody's got any comments or questions regarding this chapter or the story as a whole, please review!_

 _Next chapter, we get to see things from a couple more characters' perspectives, as the royal feast begins, Petyr interacts with the other Stark children, and Tony makes an interesting business proposition to the King… stay tuned!_


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